Ted Bell - Phantom

“And speaking of nude beaches, how was your month in the south of France?”

“Cannes? Diana was bored to tears. Ennui, you know.”

“Really? France? That mighty horde, formed of two tribes, the Bores and the Bored?”

“Don’t even think you get credit for that one, Alex.”

“No? Who does, then?”

“A certain poet named Lord Byron.”

“Whatever. If you say ‘ ennui ’ one more time, I shall throttle you within an inch of your Francophilic life.”

“One must credit the French for coining a word for that awful yawn that sleep cannot abate.”

“If you insist.”

Congreve, who seemed to have paused in his own conversation, reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a small rectangular package, wrapped in gold foil and tied with a royal-blue ribbon.

“Almost forgot something,” he said, handing the thing over to his friend. “A little something I picked up for you in town the other day. You’re going to love it.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t ask. Open,” the man said, twirling the waxed tips of his moustache.

“Nothing’s going to pop out at me, is it? Or explode white powder in my face?”

“Alex, do try to show a little appreciation for my thoughtfulness. I know this doesn’t come naturally to you, but give it a decent shot anyway.”

“You’ll recall that the last Christmas gift you gave me was that yellow golf sweater with all the red golf tees on it.”

“Yes, the one I caught you red-handed with, trying to rid yourself of it at the Harrods Returns window.”

“I don’t play golf. If I gave you a red Ferrari baseball cap to wear about town, would you do it?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“The defense rests.”

Hawke untied the ribbon and removed the wrapping. It was a black box emblazoned with the name of a shop in the Burlington Arcade that he vaguely remembered. He lifted the lid.

“Ah! How awfully kind of you, old hound. What is it?”

“What is it? Just the latest thing, that’s all.”

Hawke pulled the latest thing out and examined it more closely. “I never know what the latest thing is, Ambrose, so, please, just tell me.”

“It’s an electronic cigarette.”

“Ah! An electronic cigarette! Splendid, why didn’t you say so!” he said, leaning forward with an arm on his knee, just like a picture of a cowboy he’d once seen as a child. He twirled the white tube between thumb and forefinger and added, “What does it do, precisely?”

“Do? Why, you smoke it, of course.”

“Smoke it? It’s plastic. Have you ever smelled burning plastic, Constable? Seriously.”

“You don’t light it, Alex, you flip that little switch. Then you can smoke it.”

“Like this?” Hawke said, following instructions. He took a pull, felt something moist and vaguely disgusting filling his mouth, and quickly expelled it, trying not to retch.

“Lovely.”

“You like it?”

“Love it.”

“So… now you just smoke that instead of all those bloody Sobranie black-lung cigarettes you brought back from Russia.”

“I do?”

“Yes! Of course you do! All of the flavor, none of the carcinogens. Ideal, really, for someone like you. An addict.”

“I’m touched, really quite touched, Ambrose. Thank you.”

“Pleasure.”

“You mean to say you actually see me, oh, say at the Long Bar at Black’s, pulling out a fake plastic cigarette, a battery-powered cigarette, and, saying, ‘Look here, lads, it’s the latest thing! Have a puff, you’ll taste the difference.’ Could be an ad campaign, that. ‘Have a puff, you’ll taste the difference!’ ”

“It’s your life, dear boy,” Ambrose huffed, and sipped his drink, sulking. “Do what you bloody well like with it.”

Hawke slipped the damn thing into his breast pocket, deep within the folds of his handkerchief. He was about to return to the far more serious topic they’d been discussing when Miss Spooner appeared in the doorway with little Alexei in her arms, who was gurgling in delight at the sight of his father.

“There’s our big boy,” Ambrose cried, turning in his chair to smile at him. “There’s our little Superman!”

Hawke leaped from his chair and ran to his son, taking him into his arms. Alexei laughed as his father threw him high into the air, caught him, and threw him again and again.

“What did you do this afternoon, young man?” Hawke asked, tickling him under the chin.

“We read a book,” Spooner said, “didn’t we, Alexei?”

“A book?” Hawke said. “Well, we certainly approve of books around here. Which one?”

“One of yours. He picked it out himself. We brought it along from Hawkesmoor. Goodnight Moon.”

“Ah, one of my favorites. Did you like it, too, Alexei?”

“We read it five times, sir. I’d say yes.”

“I liked it very much, Daddy,” Alexei said.

Hawke smiled and kissed his boy’s forehead, whispering to him, “I see the moon, the moon sees me. The moon sees the somebody I’d like to see. God bless the moon and God bless me. God bless the somebody I’d like to see!”

Alexei smiled with delight.

Spooner said, “Time to say good night, I’m afraid. He’s had his supper and his bath and now it’s his bedtime.”

“Good night, little hero,” Hawke said, kissing his cheek and handing him back to Spooner.

“Yes, good night indeed,” Ambrose called from his chair. “Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

Alexei stared over Spooner’s shoulder, gazing at his father all the way down the long hallway to the foot of the staircase where he disappeared.

“Time for dinner, I should think,” Hawke said, turning to Ambrose and wiping something from the corner of his eye.

Bang on the hour of eight all the house clocks struck, chiming in unison. Moments later the dinner gong sounded, and a rich bass note reverberated throughout the house. The two old friends made their way down the hallway toward the white-and-gold-paneled dining room, a room imported lock, stock, and barrel from Madame de Pompadour’s dining room at Chateau d’Asnieres.

Lady Diana Mars, emerging into the hall from the drawing room, intercepted Hawke and Congreve making a beeline for the dining room. She was radiant. All emerald silk, bare white shoulders, and diamonds, her lustrous auburn hair swept up and held in place with jeweled combs. She was beautiful as always and Hawke told her so. He took her hand to kiss it, happy to see that the engagement ring Ambrose had given her was still in place. Hawke had a vested interest in that ring. He’d almost died diving a wreck off Bermuda trying to find it.

“Alex, you darling boy, listen,” she said. “Sir David arrived about ten minutes ago. He seems a bit… agitated. Clearly something on his mind. He’s out on the terrace now, smoking his cigar. He asked if he might have a quick word in private before we go into dinner. Do you mind awfully?”

“Would it matter?” Hawke smiled. “I’m still in his employ, last time I checked.”

“The old seafarer’s just out there, through the drawing room door. I’ll call off the turtle soup until you two guests of honor arrive at the table.”

Hawke strode through the room and pushed through the tall door out into the cool evening. Trulove had his back to him, standing stiffly at the low granite balustrade that overlooked the formal gardens and the Thames below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.

“Sir David,” Alex said quietly as he approached, not wanting to startle the man.

The director of MI6 turned and regarded him with a smile, not a warm smile exactly, but certainly friendly enough under the circumstances. Trulove, whom Hawke considered one of nature’s immutable forces, was a former Royal Navy admiral and a great hero of the Falklands War. He was a tall, well-built fellow, imposing with his close-cropped white hair and weather-beaten face. His intense blue eyes were clear, seeming to have escaped all the wind and salt and rain earned during decades on the bridges of various Royal Navy warships.